


Good Kid, Gone Missing

by Gemmi999



Series: Good Kid, Gone Missing [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Series, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmi999/pseuds/Gemmi999
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She smoothes the skirt down over her body, trying to shake out the last of the wrinkles, trying to find a way to rearrange the ungraceful lump that she still can’t hide.  Part of her thinks if she pulls her shirt down a little lower, shows off some of her cleavage, that it wouldn’t be that big a deal. People wouldn’t remember the bump, they’d remember the tits, the hooters, the jugs—all the disgusting names for her beautiful breasts (even if they only exist in her own imagination).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Kid, Gone Missing

**Author's Note:**

> I really like this story, and feel like its going to get a sequel sometime soon. I named it _Good Kid, Gone Missing_ because that is a line from a poem a transgender friend of mine wrote about being transgendered. I guess I kind of dedicate this story to her.

She smoothes the skirt down over her body, trying to shake out the last of the wrinkles, trying to find a way to rearrange the ungraceful lump that she still can’t hide. Part of her thinks if she pulls her shirt down a little lower, shows off some of her cleavage, that it wouldn’t be that big a deal. People wouldn’t remember the bump, they’d remember the tits, the hooters, the jugs—all the disgusting names for her beautiful breasts (even if they only exist in her own imagination).

Turning sideways, she looks at herself in the mirror and smiles because this is a better view, and she knows that at some point in the near future she’s going to want to take a picture of this, just to prove to herself that she is pretty (disregarding the hair, and the chin, and—oh god—the adam’s apple). Not today, she’s risking enough as it is, stopping by her room to change for a brief moment before she’s due back in the lab.

More then anything she wants to twirl in this skirt—feel the air as it rushes over her skin, tingly and energizing; she knows if she gives into that temptation, however, it’ll be the start of a slippery slide. She’s already started it by taking this quick chance, she can’t risk more now: so instead she turns her head towards the mirror once more and takes a mental picture, doing her best to remember how the skirt lays perfectly against her hips (as long as she kind of thrusts her pelvis backwards a bit, and breathes in deeply, creating a concave stomach that helps the shirt stay in place).

She lets the air out of her lungs and turns away from the mirror, not wanting to see her slowly disassemble the perfection she has just known; she’s lifted the shirt part way over her head when the door chimes and Sheppard walks in as if he owns the place. She can’t see it’s Sheppard, but he’s the only one that can really override the door locks in Atlantis (damn Ancient gene). Out of habit she sucks in her stomach and lowers the t-shirt, trying to mentally compose herself before she has to look him in the face and see what will undoubtedly be some type of rejection coupled with look of revulsion or horror or disgust.

“Hey,” her voice comes out high, a little squeaky, because she’s trained herself to talk like that when in the middle of…

“Rodney?” Sheppard’s voice is calm, his eyes are taking in her body, looking up and down and then up again, reassessing what he’d undoubtedly seen and catalogued moments earlier.

And it all crashes down: “Sheppard,” Rodney’s voice is harsh, flat. He’s lifting the shirt off before he knows exactly what’s going on and tossing it on the floor, looking at it with scorn. “Gimmie a sec to get dressed,” and Rodney’s lowering his fingers to the hook-and-eye closure of his skirt (which he doubts he’ll ever let himself look at again after today, let alone wear).

“No—“ Sheppard looks at Rodney with a bit of misery evident in his eyes. “Leave it on.”

And Rodney’s hesitant, the moods been broken and there’s no way he can go back to what he’d been, no way he can recapture that feeling, especially not when he knows that the breasts were only part of his imagination, and the bump in the middle of his skirt is still there, not going away no matter how much he wants to suck his belly in.

John reaches out and drags a finger down Rodney’s cheek, whispering “you looked beautiful,” and Rodney’s closing his eyes, leaning into the touch. He knows that whatever is about to happen probably won’t be repeated—that in the harsh light of day Sheppard would reevaluate the entire situation and it wouldn’t be hot anymore, wouldn’t be sexy or kinky or any other excuse that Sheppard was undoubtedly using to justify his actions.

But for right now all Rodney wanted to do was give in, let Sheppard touch him, let Sheppard see his body for what it really was (instead of what he wanted it to be), as a harsh reminder of his limits—as a reminder that it wasn’t alright to sneak away and put the clothing on and let her come forward, especially not on Atlantis where the community was close and the gossip even closer—he was fairly sure nothing could happen without everybody hearing about it first.

John is murmuring now, but Rodney can’t bring himself to pay attention. This entire exercise is a punishment in his mind, a reminder that next time he might not be so lucky, it might not be John that opens the door, that it might not be sex that’s expected.

He lets the fingers glide over his chest, and down towards his skirt. He’s going to burn it after this, has to burn it because anything else will be a travesty, when Sheppard actually slides a hook out of its place. His fingers are hesitant, as if he’s unsure what he should touch, if he should touch.

“Your breasts are beautiful,” John whispers close to Rodney’s ear. “They’re luscious, and your nipples are extra sensitive.” John’s fingers dance up Rodney’s chest, and toy with his nipples, slightly pinching them and then cupping his hands against the hot skin as if there were breasts he could actually feel, see, touch, appreciate.

“If I keep touching them, are you going to get wet?” John’s tongue traces a path up McKay’s cheek to his ear, and this time the words are pressed into McKay’s brain, the realization that John seems to actually understand, that he knows what to do.

And then she’s moaning, leaning into John’s hard body and lifting her head up, letting her lips seek out the warmth of his chapped mouth. She’s practically whimpering into the kiss, and it’s the hottest kiss she’s ever had in her entire life: wet and full of tongues, and for some reason her tongue feels more dainty, which is making the entire situation even more erotic.

And John is pushing her back, against the wall, then guiding her towards her bed. She stumbles a bit over the pieces of strewn about clothing, but it doesn’t matter because John’s mouth is still on hers, his hands are still playing with her breasts and she can practically hear his thoughts, saying over and over again how sexy he finds her body.

John pushes her back onto the bed, then lifts her legs and spreads her out, feasting upon her with his eyes. He trails a finger down her chest once more, and its almost at the hooks of her skirt, when he says: “You’re so hot, Meredith.” And she’s lost.


End file.
